


the thing with feathers

by OurLadyofPerpetualWallflowers



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Gen, Introspection, Post-Canon, a trip in max's head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurLadyofPerpetualWallflowers/pseuds/OurLadyofPerpetualWallflowers
Summary: A type of fix-it fic written in almost six hours and then carefully edited in about twenty minutes before waiting several years to be posted. Probably says more about me in my impression of Max than it should. Yes, I’m implying that Max and the Dag are a little more than normal. Title from Dickinson because i think it suits. Cheers.





	the thing with feathers

He puts the citadel behind him.

The Will-Be-Green-Place, it’s water and hope, Furiosa and The Wives Who Remain, he sets it carefully behind his left shoulder and walks ahead, marking the distance in steady footsteps. He doesn’t need a map.

He heads for the smoke.

He gets to the canyon just after sunset on the third day of steps and allows himself the luxury of two sips of water from the canteen he still carries, the one he took from the Bullet Farmer’s boys in the Once-Was-Green-Place. He sips the water and tries not to think too hard. He has two thoughts which brought him here, but he must think them lightly, think them sideways, not straight on, or they might turn to dust and crumble, or worse, turn dark and bite him. 

Usually, he just tries not to think at all.

It’s worse to think in words, in feelings and phrases _-why did you leave us/why did let us die/why max/why-_ he thinks in pictures instead. 

The Warboy Who Wasn’t, laying in the War Rig wreck. He changes the picture to a grave and a steering wheel marker. 

That he can do.

His Interceptor, stolen and made shiny by the Warboys Who Were, crushed under the wheels of the rigs that chased. He changes the picture to the dusty machine he had before, a shadow of so much that has passed and so much that may yet be. It will be hard to bring that shadow back, yes, but no harder than anything else. There are parts aplenty and water and supplies left behind. Yes. That he can also do.

Another picture comes unbidden, Angharad on the side of the Rig, daring him to say she was wrong to rebel, pleased when he nodded and gave her his thanks, worried as she clasped her belly between her Wives. He shakes his head and frowns. 

That, he cannot do.

What sleep comes to him, comes in a cave in the rock and it’s not yet light out when the voices wake him, tugging on him to get up and face the day like they can’t anymore. He climbs the boulders and finds the War Rig, twisted and blackened and still. The cab is upside down and he rips the lancer off another smashed vehicle to use as a pry bar. It takes all his strength and most of the morning before he gets it shifted enough that he can kick open the door. 

The Warboy lays curled on the seat, his legs broken by the compacted dash, his head covered in blood. The steering wheel is still clutched in his hands and Max almost thinks it’s sad. But sad has too many pictures to go with it, dead dogs and motherless children. Childless mothers and mud without grass. He could think of sad forever. 

Instead he bends and grasps pale arms, pulls and hauls a broken boy from a smouldering wreck. 

_-where are you going max-_ Their voices come from nowhere and everywhere and he almost drops his burden, almost goes tumbling off the wreckage in a heap. He sees an overlay in his head, the desert blurring to a jungle blurring to a blood-soaked figure and back. He shakes his head and tightens his grip and ignores the groan that comes from behind him. This, he can do.

He gets back to the ground in one piece, the Warboy on his shoulders like once before, when chains held them both. He heads for his cave, ignoring the whispers that echo off the cliffs. _-max/why did you let us die/him die/her die/save us/save them-_

He shifts the boy higher on his shoulders and feels blood trickle down his arm. It’s only a hundred steps to the cave. A few more inside. He will dig the hole tonight, when the sun is no longer high and heavy on his back. The Warboy will wait. Another groan comes from behind him and he spins, sees nothing, only wreckage and dirt and his own mismatched footprints.

He checks again, then ducks inside the shady stone, drops to his knees and sets down the boy. The white paint is faded, rubbed off by his clothes and the skin underneath is shockingly pink. Max traces the scars on the boy’s chest and his back twinges in sympathy. He covers the body with his jacket and heads back to the line of crashed cars.

He finds her in the third car from the front. 

She has two bodies on top of her. A large man and a frail old woman. But her legs stick out from under their bulk, her splendid legs, one with a bullet crease put there by him. He works and works and moves the corpses above to get to the one below. 

Her belly is gone. 

In it’s place is a red line with black stitches.

In her arms is a bundle of cloth.

He makes a sled from the hood of the car and takes Angharad and her bundle away.

He thinks of nothing for awhile.

He lays them side by side, the Warboy Who Wasn’t and Angharad the Brave and the Babe Who Never Cried. He knows there were words once, words that were said over the dead to send them to peace. He clears his throat, and grunts, and stops. The words won’t come. He balls his fists, and paces, before he lets it go. He cannot recall the words, can’t bring them up from the depths of his busted brain. Instead, he gets his water tank, and tears a strip from Angharad’s clothes, and set about washing the dirt and grime from the bodies. 

This he can do.

Maybe clean can be a kind of peace. 

He’s wiping at the oil on her face when she breathes.

He digs a hole much smaller than he should have and Angharad lays her bundle in the earth. She doesn’t cry and he isn't sure how to cry himself. They stand for a minute and then head back to the cave, where Angharad's eyes land on the Warboy where he lies in the shade. His eyes are moving and Max stops walking even as Angharad rushes forward.

Angharad holds Nux in her arms, and coos at him, and he suckles from her like a babe. Her milk is all he can keep down the first day, his body refusing even water as he drifts between alive and dead. He wakes for good on the third day. His legs are bent, crooked and lame, he can stand with help but not walk, not run. Mother’s Milk is good but it can’t work miracles.

Instead Max builds him a rig of his own, rips the seat from a car and the wheels from a motorcycle, cobbles together a kind of rolling chair. He puts steering wheels on the side of the tires for him to grip and push, and straps to go around his waist. He adds a holster on each side and a bag on the back to carry things, if the Warboy ever has things to carry again. 

He shows it to Nux as he lays in Angharad’s arms and they look at him in joy that itches at Max in the best of ways, like a scratch as it heals. 

He finds he wants to give to her too, Brave Angharad who still tires easily, and strokes her belly when she thinks they’re asleep, but she needs so little now that she has nothing. One night, she comes to him by the fire, and sits in front of him and hands him a knife before turning her back. He waits, and hums, and she smiles grimly at the wall.

“He liked my hair.”

Max nods then and rises to his knees, and carefully gathers her hair in one hand before cutting through it in a swift motion. This he can do. 

She has him go on, cutting and stopping and cutting again, using engine grease and the flat of the blade scraped across her skin until it’s all gone, until her scalp is as smooth as the wind-blasted cliffs. He hesitates when it’s done, before handing her back the knife. She tucks it into her waistband, and runs her hands over her skull, and laughs. He huffs what might be a laugh as well, and she beams at him and is Splendid again.

The next day he goes out, past the War Rig and the Car he found her in, to where the canyon widens to the desert beyond. He finds it there, Splendid’s gift; the Valkyrie’s motorbike. The front wheel is bent, the back one flat. He strips the wide tires off of the Doof Wagon and fits them to it instead. He pushes it into the camp just as the sun is setting and Nux lights up and babbles the story of the Many Mothers and their aid as Splendid runs her hands over the machine. She looks at Max with a question and he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and speaks.

“You uh. Might wanna go somewhere someday.”

She breathes and stares at him and Nux falls silent and Max shifts uncomfortably under the attention.

“I need pants to ride this.” She says finally, taking her eyes off of him and he can breathe again. He follows her at a distance as she goes to the wreckage and gathers clothes from the dead. Rictus’ pants and a Polecat’s vest and boots from a Warboy too young to know better. She changes clothes without a thought to him watching, throwing the white cloths that she wore for Joe as far as she can. She pulls on a pair of fingerless gloves and catches his eye, twirls, holding her arms out to the sides.

“Well?” She asks and he considers her as best he can. She fidgets as he thinks, turning words over in his head, trying to piece together what he wants to tell her. At last, he shrugs and lifts the corner of his mouth and raises one hand to give her a thumbs up.

She beams her Splendid smile at him again and something shifts in his chest.

The new Interceptor is finished by the eighth day. With parts from all the busted machines and Nux’s knowledge of how this bit will fit into that bit and Splendid’s fingers unused to but willing to do whatever is asked, Max’s shadow comes back. The last thing he does is coat the shiny chrome paint in thick black grease, dulling the shine and setting it with dust.

He looks at them that night, the moonlight reflecting off of Splendid’s scalp and Nux’s chair as they’re bent over some piece of machinery and a picture forms in his head. 

Furiosa the Redeemed and Capable the Kind. Toast the All-Knowing and Creddo the Strong and the Dag Who Keeps the Seeds. He sees their grief and feels their pain and the voices come again _-why did you leave us/we needed you/they need you/why didn’t you save us/max/max come back/max come home/max/max/MAX/MAX/MAX-_

“Fool!” 

He snaps back into himself and they’re staring at him from across the fire, eyes wide and worried, but not afraid. Never afraid. He stands and walks out of the light.

“Tomorrow we leave.” The words come easy this time.

They ride into the Will-Be-Green-Place in a line, the Interceptor first, with Max and Nux inside, and Splendid behind them on her Valkyrie. There’s a guard, and a warning shot, and they stop a hundred yards from the lift where he last saw them. Max gets out, hands held high. He has no pictures for this moment, so he just waits and readies himself for whatever comes. A cry goes up and Toast flies over the edge of the cliff, riding a chain down to the ground where she flings herself at Splendid. There are tears and hugs and kisses to Splendid’s bare scalp. The other Wives follow on the lift, Cheedo is crying and laughing at once, the Dag holds a hand to her swelling belly and has flowers in her hair, Capable bounces in place and claps her hands in joy, shouting to anyone who will listen that Splendid has returned.

Furiosa is last and she smiles at him in benevolent thanks.

Max puts his hands down and nods.

“So green!” Nux exclaims, looking at the blooming cliff faces in wonder, and Max moves to lift him out of the car, placing in him his rig and barely getting out of the way in time for Capable to throw her arms around the Warboy.

“How…” She asks and Nux shrugs and tugs on her braid.

“Valhalla does not want me, I guess. It only took my legs.” 

Capable looks him over, seeing for the first time the bent remains of his lower body and she drops to the ground and kisses Nux’s broken knees where they sit in the rig. “Then I will keep you until it changes its’ mind.”

Max leaves them gazing at each other in wonder and belonging. 

The Dag greets him by introducing her child.

“This is Rain. She’ll born one evening as the moon rises high. That’s a good omen.”

Max looks at her eyes in the heat of the day, and he see things beyond and before, and he strokes one finger over her forehead, leaving a red mark from the dirt like a blessing. He nods at the Dag and steps away, watches as she goes to where Toast and Splendid and Cheedo are still wrapped in each other. Splendid embraces them both, Dag and Rain, and something shifts again in his chest.

“Thank you for bringing them back.” Her voice is low, barely audible over the daily noise of the Will-Be-Green-Place.

He shrugs again. They belong here, not there. It was nothing to make the picture right.

“You should stay for our next meal.” Furiosa the Redeemed says to the sky, approaching him sideways, giving him pictures instead of questions.

He thinks, scratches his head where the chains once were, hums. 

That he can do.


End file.
